by Sophia Henry
A steady stream of rain pelts my head as I rush to the vehicle. I hope whoever had been driving was all right—but from the looks of the wreck, it didn’t bode well.
Holding my hand over my eyes to shield the shower, I peer into the driver’s side window, squinting in the darkness. Then I lean back, wipe the rain away with my free hand, and look again.
Slumped over the wheel is a young woman with blood streaked from forehead to chin.
I jerk the door handle with urgency, knowing damn well it’s not going to open.
The SUV looks like a fricking accordion in the front, smashed between two huge oak trees that must be at least a hundred years old. This neighborhood—one of Charlotte’s oldest and wealthiest—has been around that long.
I run back to my truck, unlatch the tool case in the bed, and grab a rusty, old crowbar that hasn’t seen the light of day in over ten years. Being prepared for disaster is one of the perks of inheriting my dad’s truck after he died.
When I return to the SUV, I shove the narrow end into the crease between the window and the door frame, attempting to unlatch the lock.
If this doesn’t work, I’ll break the window. I don’t want to do that, but the woman hasn’t moved, so I know time is of the essence here. When the lock clicks, I tug at the door handle again. Thankfully, it opens with one swift pull. My fingers are so cold, I can barely curl them anymore.
I assess the driver to see if there’s anything exceptionally traumatic that might clue me in that I shouldn’t move her. And that’s the trickiest part, since I’m no medical professional.
But the temperature has dropped significantly as the night closes in, and the freezing rain is already turning to ice, so I have to make a quick decision. If I don’t help this girl now, she could be out here, unconscious and freezing, for hours. First response crews always get crazy busy during ice storms.
If I help her, I’m risking a major lawsuit if she’s seriously injured. She could say it was from something I did.
Let her sue me. I can’t walk away now and leave her here to freeze.
I lean over, reaching around to unlatch the seat belt, while making sure my body is there to brace hers if she falls forward when I unclip it. Pressing firmly, I release the latch.
My heart jumps when she releases a low, pained moan.
“It’s okay, Hon—” I catch myself and add a ‘Miss’ in there to make the nickname seem slightly more respectful. “It’s okay, Miss Honey. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll go slow,” I tell her as I wrap my arms around her midsection and attempt to slide her from the vehicle slowly. There’s slight resistance with her right hand which seems to be stuck between the seat and the console. Letting her body rest against mine while I reach over to her hand, I use the lightest touch possible to pull her wrist forward and up so it doesn’t catch on anything. That’s when I almost lose my dinner. Her hand is covered with blood. The index finger seems to be out of place, not necessarily hanging off, but it’s turned sideways.
Fuck me. Why didn’t I call an ambulance?
But there’s no time to delay. Not with freezing rain soaking through my sweatshirt. I don’t have anything to stop the blood, so I tuck it into her coat pocket to keep it contained. Once I’ve got her out, I switch my grip and heft her into my arms as if we were crossing the threshold. Making sure to steady myself first, I kick the door closed. Then I lean over, tucking her into my body, trying to shield her from as much of the steady shower of sleet as possible as I carry her to my truck.
After setting her on the seat in the passenger side and making sure her hand is still secure in her pocket, I hurry back to see if she has a purse in the car. Most women carry some kind of bag. With that, the medical staff will be able to check her ID and figure out who to call when I get her to the hospital.
As expected, she does have a purse. It’s upside down on the passenger-side floor with almost all the contents splattered across the mat. Without paying attention to the items, I toss everything back in and bring it to my truck.
When I set the bag at her feet, her head rolls to the side, causing her hair to cover her face like a curtain. I can’t help but want to get a better look at her. It doesn’t matter, but there’s this odd tug in my gut that makes me yearn to know her. To remember her face.
Blood has trickled onto the lapel of her immaculate cream-colored pea coat. I don’t know anything about her, but I can tell by her clothing and pocketbook that she has money. And if she didn’t have money she sure spent money.
I shake away the thought. Her face and finances are not my business. The only thing I care about right now is getting her to the hospital.
“Stay with me,” I say, patting her knee as I pull onto the road.
When I arrive at the hospital, I secure the strap of Miss Honey’s pocketbook over my shoulder, before gathering her in my arms and taking her in through the emergency entrance. They’re probably going to ask me personal information—or at the very least—her name. My respectful term of endearment won’t cut it. But I’m not about to go through her bag. I’ll let the hospital staff deal with that.
“What happened?” a nurse asks, rushing toward me with a wheelchair. I place Miss Honey into it gently. Before I straighten up, I wipe the clumps of wet hair off her face and tuck it behind her ears, finally revealing her face. Her lips are full, but a pale blueish-purple—almost as pale as the skin over her sunken cheeks. I imagine they’re a beautiful peachy-pink hue on a normal day.
Without her hair veiling her face, I can see that the blood, which had spilled onto her otherwise immaculate jacket, came from a nasty red slash across the bridge of her nose. But not even the ugly gash can mar the natural beauty of her face. Smooth, pale skin, high cheekbones, thick, meticulously groomed eyebrows.
A stream of blood has dried over her right cheek. I wish I would’ve assessed her injuries, or at least wiped her face, before I began driving. But it made more sense to get her help as soon as possible.
“Wreck over on Queens Road West. Car smashed between two trees on one of those curves. I found her unconscious behind the wheel.” I sweep the rain-soaked hood from my head.
The nurse wastes no more time talking. “I’m taking her back,” she says over her shoulder as she begins to wheel her away.
“Her right hand!” I call before she’s out of sight.
“Excuse me?” She stops and turns around.
“Her right hand is messed up. I tucked it into her pocket because I didn’t have anything to wrap it.”
Though no sound comes out, I see her mouth form the word, “Fuck.”
My heart pumps faster, adrenaline telling me I should stay, protect her, make sure she’s okay. Why the hell am I this affected by a stranger? I swallow a lump in my throat.
“Can I go back with her?” I ask in desperation.
“Are you related?”
“No. I—I don’t even know her name. I have her bag right here, but—” I ramble, pulling the strap off my shoulder and holding it out in front of me.
“We know her name.”
Startled that the nurse knows who the girl is, I run a hand though my hair, sliding the falling locks back on top of my head. “You know her?”
“Yes. She’s a surgeon here. I’m sorry, sir, but I need to get her help right now.”
“Yeah.” I nod, dropping my arm to the side. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry to keep you.”
“Sir! I can take that bag,” a woman calls to me from behind the desk. She’s got the phone to her ear. When she speaks again, I know it’s not me she’s addressing. “Someone just brought Liz in. She was in an accident up the road. He said something about an injury to her right hand. Yes. Paige just brought her back. Can you let Dr. Crowder know?”
She hangs up the phone as I get to the desk. “Is she going to be okay?”
“I hope so. Thank you so much for bringing her in.”
“She’s a surgeon here?” I ask.
The woman looks around, as if she’s worried to get caug
ht answering my questions. “Yes, well, a surgical resident, but, I mean, even if she wasn’t, we’d still know who she was. Her family’s name is on this wing.” She nods to the huge bronze plaque on the wall next to the automatic doors. “Not from around here, are you?”
Her rhetorical question almost makes me laugh, since I was born and raised in Charlotte, delivered at this very hospital, twenty-seven years ago.
The emergency room is in the Commons wing of the hospital.
Commons. Commons. I rack my brain in an attempt to remember which rich, white dude donated millions of dollars to have his name on the wing of the hospital.
Harris Commons.
Of course. The founder of Commons, the Charlotte-based department store chain. The stupid tagline from their annoying TV commercials pops into my head.
Commons—Affordable fashion for the common man.
Without wasting another second, I toss Miss Honey’s purse on the desk. It lands with a thump, but I’m only slightly concerned if any of the valuable contents inside broke. I’m sure she can afford to replace anything I may have damaged in my haste.
Once I’m outside, I pull the hood of my black sweatshirt over my head again. It’s soggy and wet, but I couldn’t care less. I rub my hands together in the freezing rain. I’ve done my good deed for one of Charlotte’s wealthiest families and now I’m literally washing my hands of them.
CHAPTER 1
AUSTIN
Being on stage is my favorite high. There’s absolutely nothing better than playing in front of a crowd. The bigger the better. The more pumped they are, the more adrenaline gushes through my veins.
After three months of touring in North America, as the opening band for the uber-famous, indie rock band, Intermission, tonight, we’re at The Underground in Charlotte, North Carolina. With roughly 750 people packing the place, it’s one of the largest crowds we’ve played thus far. Not that we take any of the credit for that. But this is our final show with Intermission, and Charlotte is our hometown, so I’d like to think we had a positive effect on ticket sales.
Connection with the audience is an essential part of the experience for me. I want every single person in the crowd to walk away with at least three thoughts about my band, Drowned World:
Damn! They killed it.
What a phenomenal show.
Those guys are authentic and nice.
Yeah, I know musicians shouldn’t give a fuck about being liked. But I do. Not because I need it for validation—I’m good in the self-confidence department, and I’d play my music no matter what anyone thinks of it.
My goal is to give our fans the ultimate experience. I want them to walk away thinking we were one of the best bands they’ve ever seen live. I want them to know they can talk to us after the show or hit us up on social media, and we’re gonna interact and connect. We’re not gonna be dicks. We honestly appreciate every single person.
The people who listen to our music and come to see our shows allow me to live my dream and pay my bills. Well, most of my bills. I still have to work another job. Hopefully that won’t be for much longer.
Speaking of the people who come to our shows, there’s a sexy brunette in the second row whom I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off all night. It wasn’t even her perfect rack that lured me in. Though her boobs look pretty fucking phenomenal propped up and on display in a plunging V-neck, black dress. Sure, I noticed her cleavage, but honestly, it was her eyes that hooked me.
I’m used to people staring. Women wanting. But usually those women want to fuck me. Not saying this girl doesn’t, but her gaze doesn’t seem sexual. It’s intense and imploring—like she’s trying to figure me out through my lyrics.
Maybe I’m romanticizing the connection. From her spot in the crowd, I’ve been able to see her the entire time, but it wasn’t until the lights lit up the crowd for a good three seconds, illuminating the entire floor, that I caught the intensity in her gaze.
I’m probably making too much of it. Romanticizing is one of my favorite pastimes. It’s where I do my best songwriting.
She’s standing next to EmVee, a tattoo artist I’ve known for years, and looks eerily familiar. Yet, I swear I don’t know her. Not like I expect to know everyone EmVee knows, but we run in the same circle and tend to know the same people.
When I launch into our final song, Open Your Heart, which got picked up by the major alternative-rock station on satellite radio a few months ago, and set us up on our first major North American tour, I make sure to catch my mystery girl’s eyes. Maybe I’m singing for her.
No.
I know exactly who I’m singing for: Miss Honey, the nickname I gave the girl I wrote the song about. The girl I took to the hospital after I found her unconscious in her smashed SUV on the side of the road about six months ago. The girl I spent a total of thirty minutes of my life with who became the inspiration for the song that made our band blow up.
Fozzie and Tim, my band brothers, keep the beat of the song running. Before I launch into the last chorus, I stop to say, “We are Drowned World! Thank you for rocking with us tonight! Intermission is next!”
As expected, the crowd goes crazy when I mention the headliner. Taking that extra surge of energy, I jump back into the song for our big finish. I’m feeling the high when the crowd sings the last chorus with me. The enthusiasm fuels my entire body; adrenaline pushes me to do something I’ve only ever done one other time—and that was with Fozzie’s permission. I cross the small stage and leap onto his bass drum, strumming my guitar with gusto as I rock out to the final notes. Just before the last chord, I jump off the drum—sending the crowd into a deafening chorus of cheers.
It’s straight legend stuff. Go big or go home, right?
We want people to remember the show. You never know when it’ll all be gone. The radio airplay. The packed venues. The screaming crowds. We’re not arrogant, by any means, but we know we’ve got this moment to impress, and we’re not throwing away our shot.
“Thank you so much, Charlotte! We’ll be in the back after the show. Come say hi and ya know, maybe buy some merch.”
I glance at the brunette in the second row one last time before following Fozzie and Tim offstage. She’s still staring. And I’m still enthralled.
We head to the greenroom where we usually stay until Intermission finishes their set. Tonight will be a little different. We’ll head back out in a few minutes and start signing early, while the crew sets up for the headliner. We want to make sure we get to everyone who wants to interact with us, especially for the hometown crowd. My mom, aunt, and cousin are out there, waiting to hug me.
After exchanging a few high-fives, fist bumps, and “Well done, boys!” with our crew, I accept the water bottle our tour manager hands me, pull out my phone, and start scrolling through social media. It’s my usual routine right after we get off stage. The guys and our stage crew go back out and take down the equipment while I down a few bottles of water and relax for a minute. At the beginning of this most recent tour with Intermission, Fozzie suggested I take the time to chill out because he saw how much performing takes out of me—mentally and physically.
Honestly, it’s one of the kindest things anyone’s ever done for me. Don’t get me wrong, I love performing. There’s no bigger rush than being on stage and sharing our songs with the crowd live—the way they were meant to be heard. My body soaks up all the energy: the rush from the smiles, the heads bobbing, the hands in the air. But all of that is exhausting for me.
People assume I’m extroverted and outgoing because that’s what I show them onstage and on social media. I love it, but it’s a side of me that I’ve learned to play up, not the entire person I am.
Having a few minutes to myself, after the set, gives me what I need to calm down and recharge. I use the time to interact with people who might have tagged us on social media. Building relationships online has been a huge part of getting noticed and constructing our fan base. It’s part of the grassroots marketin
g we’ve done since we started, building an audience with engagement. I try to like everything we’re tagged in—if it’s relevant. It’s the easiest way to let our fans know that we see them and we appreciate them. Not everyone can get to a show, and online support can generate a huge buzz and get our music heard by more people.
Tonight, my motivation to get on social media is spurred by something else—or someone else. I can’t get the beautiful brunette from the crowd out of my mind, and it’s fucking with my head because even after three months of women in various cities throwing themselves at me night after night, the only person who stimulated my interest as much as this girl, in the last few years, was Miss Honey.
This is where being a hopeless romantic is a pain in my ass, because I’m not even obsessing over a real person. I’m obsessing over the person I created in my head. It makes for great songwriting material, but it’s shit for my love life.
The tragic mind of a creative.
I don’t screw around with groupies. I mean, I have, but I got that out of my system early in my music career when I was just a horny teenager sowing my oats. Back when I got excited by the mere thought that girls wanted to get with me. It’s not my thing to have meaningless sex with a blur of faces. I need to feel a connection. Don’t get me wrong, I can get off, but there’s nothing better than looking into a woman’s eyes when I’m fucking her and knowing there’s a strong mental bond behind that.
Instead of stopping to read through all of the messages of people who’ve tagged me or the band, I immediately search for EmVee, wondering if she posted any pics or videos from the show, with the hope that she tagged the hottie.
“Boom!” I say out loud as I click on the most recent photo EmVee posted of herself, flanked by two other girls. The caption reads:
Rocking out to Drowned World with my beautiful sisters! Love you @commonliz & @commonmaddie! #Underground #cltmusic
Sisters? These girls are sisters? I never would have guessed they were related at all. EmVee’s covered in tats, with long, silver hair and a face painted with dramatic makeup. She probably has a YouTube channel where she gives makeup tips to goth girls. The girl on her left side is the stereotypical Southern belle. Big blond hair, wide, blue eyes, tanned, glowing skin on a Barbie body. I bet she knows how to use the correct forks and makes all the Chad’s dicks jump.