This is my alt-rock NA serialised story — the book my younger self needed, written by my older self who finally knows what to do with all the bruises.
New here? Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. Or you can go to the chapter index
Dev
Promo meetings are the part where you smile, nod, and pretend you still believe in the thing you’re selling.
Eight people around a table, each one pretending they care about “artistic integrity” while flipping through mood boards they could’ve pulled from a stock image site.
The creative director clicked to the next slide: a soft-focus portrait of me staring moodily at the floor.
“This is intimate,” she said, like she’d just reinvented intimacy.
Next slide. Me, black-and-white, shirt unbuttoned to somewhere near my navel.
“This one’s raw.”
Next slide. Me again, holding a guitar like it had whispered a secret to me.
“This one’s vulnerable and sexy.”
I bit back a laugh. “They’re all bullshit.”
Eight heads swivelled toward me.
“What do you mean?” asked Tristan from marketing, voice pitched somewhere between confusion and condescension.
I leaned back in the chair, folding my arms. “I mean none of this has anything to do with the single. This is all… staged mood lighting and whatever ‘vulnerable’ means on Pinterest.”
The photographer tried to jump in. “The label’s looking for something that’s true to you and commercially resonant…”
“Yeah, no,” I said. “You want truth? I’ve got someone.”
They blinked. “Who?”
I didn’t plan to say her name, but there it was anyway, on my tongue before I could stop it.
“Sadie Pike.”
The PR woman raised an eyebrow. “And… who is Sadie Pike?”
I shrugged. “An artist in Auckland. She gets it.”
Tristan frowned like I’d just suggested we replace the single with a field recording of goats. “Does she have industry experience?”
“She has a pencil and a point of view. That’s more than half the people in this room.”
Silence. Then:
“Well,” the creative director said, “send us her portfolio.”
Instead, I pulled out my phone, found the photo, and slid it across the table.
It was the sketch she’d done of me in the hut — back when she didn’t know who I was. No eyeliner, no styled hair, no brand. Just me, raw and unfiltered, slouched in the corner with my guitar and a makeshift bandage under my shirt.
I remembered the way her gaze had snagged on the tattoo low on my belly when she’d pressed the gauze to my side, her hand steady but her breath just a little shorter. The way I’d clocked it, and for a beat, the pain wasn’t the thing filling the room.
They all leaned in.
“Oh, wow,” someone murmured. “That’s… intense.”
“Very authentic,” said the PR woman, dragging out the word like it had been marinating in focus groups.
Tristan nodded. “Grainy, gritty, but… still marketable. We could pair this style with a controlled colour palette, maybe add a logo…”
I took the phone back before they could start talking about font choices.
They saw technique. I saw the only time in years someone had caught me without me having to perform.
ASK
Sadie
Two days later, the mural was almost done.
I’d been ignoring the DM at the top of my inbox for forty-eight hours, letting it sit there like a song I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear again.
Dev (@sage_me_pls)
You got a minute? Got something I want to run past you.
He’d sent it late (his late), which meant somewhere in the afternoon for me.
Today, with the wall drying and my hands idle, I caved.
Me
Depends. Is it about boots again?
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Came back.
Dev
No. Art.
Looking at the single promo concepts and they’re… not it. Pretty. Polished. Dead. Feels like the label’s more interested in selling perfume than music.
Then I thought about that sketch u did of me.
u’ve got that thing. Like you disappear while screaming?
I stared at that last line.
He remembered.
Of course he did.
Me
That’s either the weirdest compliment I’ve had, or the most accurate.
What’s the job?
Dev
Promo art for the single. Posters, socials, maybe a limited print run.
Wanna make it look like it actually means something?
I leaned back against the drop cloth, matcha sweating in my hand.
He could have anyone. Literally anyone.
People who’d kill to slap their name on a Ruin album.
And yet… here he was. In my DMs. Almost sounding nervous.
Me
Why me?
Dev
Because you make the kind of art I want to make music for.
And because I think u’d call me out if I was faking it.
That one hit somewhere I didn’t want to name.
Somewhere Steve’s voice still lingered, telling me no one wanted my “too much.”
Me
Okay. I’ll look. No promises.
Dev
That’s all I’m asking.
I’ll send the track.
Me
…You trust me with an unreleased song?
Dev
I trust u not to be boring.
I didn’t reply right away.
Instead, I thought about the ladder sketch pinned above my bed, the vines still clinging.
Maybe this was stupid.
Maybe it was something else.
Me
Send it.
The second I hit send, my stomach dropped.
Because I hadn’t just agreed to work with Dev – the guy from the hut with blood on his ribs and something real in his eyes.
I’d just agreed to work with Ruin.
The brand. The storm.
The man whose face was on a thousand billboards, whose name came with screaming crowds and marketing decks.
And I was about to step into that world.
His world.
God help me – I think I wanted to.
❧❧❧
By the time I got home, the others were in the kitchen arguing about whether soup counted as a meal or a beverage.
Gray was waving a ladle like a conductor’s baton. Jasper was already three-quarters through a wine bottle. Sam was scrolling her phone like she was paid to ignore us.
I tried to sneak past with my tea.
Didn’t work.
Gray’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you smiling like a bisexual on payday?”
“That’s not a fucking thing. Also, I’m not,” I said — apparently the exact wrong thing to say, because Jasper gasped like he’d just spotted a murder.
“She’s smiling and defensive,” he announced, slapping his palm on the counter. “Spill it. Who’s the man? Or woman. Or ethically questionable situationship.”
Sam didn’t even look up. “She’s been quiet on the group chat for two days. That’s suspicious.”
I exhaled, set the tea down. “It’s work.”
“What kind of work?” Gray asked, narrowing his eyes like I’d just admitted to smuggling diamonds.
“The art kind,” I said.
Sam’s eyes flicked up from her phone. “What kind of art?”
“The visual kind?” I tried.
Gray tilted their head. “For who?”
I sipped my tea. “A… client.”
Jasper perked up. “Oh, this is good. What industry?”
“Music,” I muttered.
Three pairs of eyes locked on me like sharks scenting blood.
“Band or solo?” Gray pressed.
“Band.”
Jasper narrowed his eyes. “Local?”
“No.”
Sam’s phone thunked onto the counter. “Sadie. Who.”
I hesitated. “It’s for… Ruin.”
The kitchen went still.
Then –
“No.”
“Oh my God.”
“Sadie.”
“Dev Fletcher,” Gray said slowly, “as in the DOC hut? As in the man we saged out of your life? As in Ruin?”
I winced. “It’s for their single. And maybe merch.”
Jasper made a strangled noise. “Do you mean to tell us, that you’ve been DM’ing him and you didn’t tell us?”
“I was going to — ”
“No. Phone. Now.” Gray held out a hand. “We need to analyse the evidence for… context.”
I hesitated.
“It’s not like that,” I said, handing over the phone.
They huddled together like a jury, scrolling.
Jasper read aloud in a dramatic stage whisper: “‘You’ve got that thing. Like you disappear while screaming.’” He looked up. “That’s not flirty. That’s artistically horny.”
Gray nodded sagely. “This is basically foreplay for creative people.”
Sam finally looked up from her phone. “Or it’s just work. Which is still great, but…” She tipped her head. “You know art school might not love this. Big-name music gigs aren’t exactly the purest fine art credentials. Some of the tutors think commercial work is selling out — and you’re still under their grading thumb.”
Jasper scoffed. “Oh, please. If it was for Phoebe Bridgers, they’d build her a statue.”
Sam scoffed. “Fuck’s sake, Jaz. How can you even compare the two?” Jasper rolled his eyes dramatically. “Just… be ready for the purists to get sniffy, and maybe have a Very Highbrow Explanation ready for crit.”
Gray handed the phone back with a flourish. “Proceed, but I’m keeping the sage handy.”