Page 57 of The Ex Factor

Now

The hum of the tour bus engine vibrated right through the thin mattress of Ashley’s bunk, a low, rhythmic rumble that usually put her to sleep within minutes.

Tonight, it was useless.

Ashley shifted onto her back, staring up at the dark vinyl ceiling just inches from her face. She pulled the heavy privacy curtain back a fraction of an inch, peeking out into the narrow, dimly lit hallway of the bus.

Down at the far end, behind a matching black velvet curtain, Molly was probably fast asleep. She’d always had a talent for sleeping through anything back in the day. You could have lobbed a grenade into her bedroom, and she’d just turn and pull the duvet over her head.

Ashley let the curtain drop shut and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, letting out a long, silent exhale.

She turned onto her side, pulling the thin duvet up to her chin. The air conditioning was blasting, but her skin felt hot.

Five years. Five years of complete silence. And now Molly was ten feet away, breathing the same recycled air.

How the fuck did we get here?

The bus hit a dip in the motorway, swaying gently. Down the hall, a faint rustle of sheets echoed in the quiet, followed by the soft, unmistakable sigh Molly always made when she couldn’t get comfortable.

Ashley froze, listening. Her heart gave a sudden, ridiculous thud against her ribs. Molly wasn’t asleep. She was too stressed. Because this was stressful.

This wasn’t just a clever PR stunt. It was a pressure cooker. Ashley prayed not to get her arse cooked.

Five Years Ago

Ashley sat on a peeling vinyl sofa, nervously tapping her fingers against the battered case of her acoustic guitar. She waited for Pete, a booking agent who handled emerging artists across a circuit of pubs, clubs, and small theatres. If she impressed him, there was a chance of landing a support slot on a four-week regional tour with an up-and-coming indie folk band.

It wasn’t glamorous. But to Ashley, it meant the world. She’d be a professional musician.

‘Ashley Malone?’

Ashley looked up.

Pete stood in the doorway: jeans, band T-shirt, and an apologetic smile.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Come through.’

The audition room was little more than a rehearsal studio. Grey carpet. Scuffed walls. A microphone on a stand. Pete sat behind a folding table with a notebook, while an assistant fiddled absent-mindedly with a laptop.

‘Nice and simple,’ Pete said. ‘One original. Imagine you’re opening a show.’

Ashley nodded, took a steadying breath, and unpacked her guitar. She stepped to the microphone. She remembered her last gig, her fear, her panic. And then… Molly.

She didn’t feel so scared this time.

‘This one’s called “Never You”.’

Her fingers found the opening chords almost automatically. She wasn’t thinking about impressing Pete anymore. She was simply singing.

You left the leather jacket on the peg by the door

With the creases where your shoulders used to be

You say the room gets small when the volume gets low

But you’re only looking for the sound of me

There’s a silver-plated crown in the back of your throat