Page 35 of Unleashed By Eden

He’s . . . emptied out. Bone tired.

“What the hell is going on with you?” I whisper.

His mouth hangs slightly open, the crease between his brows still there even in sleep.

I stand there for a moment longer, watching him. Then I reach for my camera on the bedside table and snap a single shot.

I don’t know why I take it. Maybe to not forget this version of him.

Rolling him onto his side, I pull the duvet up over his shoulder so he doesn’t freeze under the air-conditioning.

The room is dim, lit only by the city’s lights trickling through the gap in the curtains. I grab the spare blanket from the wardrobe and move to the couch. It’s wide and low and looks expensive, but it’s probably the least comfortable thing ever designed by a human. Still, better than lying next to the man who’s haunted me for years.

Just as I lower myself onto the cushions, another knock rattles the door.

My heart jumps, ready for security or Chris to barge in and collect their lead singer. But when I ease the door open, it’s room service with my burger and soda.

I take the tray, thank the guy in a whisper, and close the door as quietly as possible.

Back on the couch, I tuck my legs under me and lift the metal lid. My stomach growls on cue. I don’t turn on the TV; the light and sound might wake him. I don’t put on my headphones, either. If he starts vomiting or decides to roll off the bed, I want to know.

I eat in the half-dark, the clink of ice against my glass and Carter’s deep breathing the only sounds in the room.

I look over at him between bites.

The rest of the world sees the frontman. The man who turns arenas into a church with nothing but music and notes as his scripture. They see the headlines, the tabloids.

But this is the version no one sees.

This is the Carter who sat hunched on my couch with bloody knuckles at nineteen. The one who used to sleep sitting up in case his mom tried to drive drunk. The man who left and never called. Who still shows up in my dreams, uninvited.

What happened to him?

The burger turns to cardboard in my mouth. I finish it more out of necessity than hunger, wipe my fingers on the napkin and set the tray on the floor.

I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and lie down, staring at the ceiling, watching the lights from outside crawl across it. My mind will not shut up. It loops from the boy on that couch years ago to the man in my bed now, from his slurred “us . . . all wrong” to that one unfiltered word, “dying.”

Sleep hangs just out of reach, waiting at the edges, then backing off again. Questions sit in the dark with me, refusing to let me go under.

***

I wake with a headache pounding behind my eyes. Feels like a hangover, which is cute, considering I didn’t drink much last night. Apparently, a crappy couch and almost no sleep come with their own special brand of punishment.

I push myself upright and scrub my hands over my face, blinking until the room comes into focus. Carter is still asleep in my bed. At some point in the night, he rolled onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes, the duvet riding low on his hips.

I move quietly, muscles protesting when I stand. Shorts, flip-flops, loose T-shirt. I scrape my hair into a messy bun, grab my purse, and set a fresh bottle of water on his nightstand along with two painkillers.

He doesn’t stir. Mouth slack, snoring softly.

“Of course,” I mutter. “Sleep through the one time I do something nice for you.”

I slip out into the hallway, easing the door shut behind me. The floor is blissfully empty. Thankfully, no Chris or security.

The lobby is already busy, front desk staff doing that polite morning voice with early travelers checking out. The barista at the café station is way too cheerful for this hour.

“How’s your morning going?” he asks, hand reaching for cups.

“Fine,” I reply, voice flat. “Two lattes, please.”